Once on the plane, we flew to Paris without much difficulty or sleep. My brother watched IronMan 3 and I watched Great Gatsby. Naturally. I was thankful for the multi-hour connection because we had to walk across the airport to change terminals, which was no small feat. I started to regret taking two suitcases, but not nearly so much as I would in a matter of hours. In less than an hour, however, my brother and I made it through security and to our gate. I enjoyed a strong cup of tea and made myself comfortable by the gate, pleased with the thought that soon I would be in Spain. Well...it was once landed in Spain our traveling troubles returned.
I called the friends we planned on staying with so they could give us directions on how to get to their house. There was a metro and the airport, and then a train to the stop Las Matas. Simple enough, right? NO! FALSE! We ended up at a major train station, going up and down escalators (for future reference, suitcases and escalators don't mix. Possibly life threatening.) searching for the correct platform, and trying my hardest to understand the small train map that should tell how to reach Las Matas. There may or may not have been tears involved. I felt a duty to get my brother to our friends safely. Instead, I think he was just frustrated with me. So I was only more disappointed in myself and therefor even more anxious in my ability to travel properly. Evenly, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to talk to some kind woman at information who told me was platform and what time. And hour later, we arrived at the right station...and exited on the wrong side. Our host found us anyway!
Needless to say...I was properly terrified of traveling back to Madrid the next day to visit...it meant navigating the bus and metro system, both of which I had been assured were perfectly self explanatory. Even so, at this point, my traveling confidence was in shambles.
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